


Nine Times Blue

by wesley2015remaster



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Dolenzmith - Freeform, M/M, davy and peter are kinda absent from this one, someday i'll write something for them but today is not that day, tv universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesley2015remaster/pseuds/wesley2015remaster
Summary: The best hangover Micky Dolenz has ever had.
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Nine Times Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This is, quite literally, just a collection of tropes that I can’t get enough of. No subversive plot to be found here, baby, just complete regurgitation of several fanfics I’ve read over the past week.

Mike was waiting in the living room. He wasn’t _exactly_ waiting for Micky, but he wasn’t _not_ waiting for Micky, either. Mostly, he was in the living room because he wasn’t tired, and he knew Micky always came home from parties fairly trashed. So, there was no harm in being there to help him up the stairs when he came stumbling in.

  
It was a Friday night, and Davy, Peter, and Micky – being the sociable ones – had spent it by going out. Mike, however, had had a string of days in which he had attempted, and failed, to keep his fellow monkees out of trouble, and selfishly took the first opportunity to have a quiet night to himself, with no responsibilities.

  
Mike was expecting Micky to come home earlier than Peter and Davy. Despite being small, Davy handled his liquor a lot better than Micky, and Peter managed to pace himself well, not being all too interested in getting drunk. Micky always went too hard, too fast, and _always_ tapped out early while he was still able to walk himself home. Sometimes Mike was astonished that Micky hadn’t passed out in the street on the way back to the Pad.

  
Just as Mike predicted, soon there Micky was, struggling with the doorknob, and noisily stumbling inside, and Davy and Peter were nowhere in sight. Micky sighed and collapsed next to Mike on the couch. Mike shifted.

  
“Stay here, I’ll get you some water,” Mike said, standing up while adjusting his shirt that had come untucked as he lazed around the house. He walked into the kitchen, and filled a glass with tap water, and once this was done, he turned around and found Micky had followed him. He jumped, almost spilling the water. “Don’t do that!”

  
“Do what?” Micky asked. He was swaying slightly, with a dreamy look in his eyes. He was a lot slower when he was drunk. The best Mike could describe it was that Micky seemed … dizzy.

  
Mike held Micky’s shoulder with his free hand to stop his swaying. “Sneaking up on me, man.”

  
“Oh,” Micky chuckled. Then he seemed to giggle at the sound his voice made.

“And I told you a million times not to walk home alone,” Mike scolded. “You’re gonna wake up in a gutter one day.”

  
“Sorry, Mike,” Micky said sheepishly, though he had a smirk and was obviously biting his lip to stop himself from making some sarcastic comment. He giggled silently against his sealed lips. He was avoiding making eye contact, but every now and then he would glance quickly at Mike and look away again as soon as he had caught his eye. Whenever Micky was drunk, he seemed to laugh a lot around Mike, though it wasn’t as if Mike was exactly trying to be funny. “Can I get that water now?”

  
Mike had gotten distracted by Micky, and forgotten he was holding the glass still. With a slight raise of his eyebrows as he realised, he silently handed him the glass he had been holding, and his fingers brushed over Micky’s hand. Micky took the glass in one hand and snatched up Mike’s hand in the other. He looked to be inspecting it, but most everything was blurry, and constantly moving for Micky, making this an obvious struggle for him. Mike stood, still and awkward, as he waited for Micky to say something  
“You have calluses on your fingers,” Micky stated, gently running his thumb over the course skin. Mike blushed.

  
“Well, yeah, I’m a guitarist, babe,” Mike chuckled. Micky seemed satisfied with that answer and smiled up at him.

  
“It’s cute,” Micky said, still smiling as he dropped Mike’s hand to sip slowly at his water. Usually, Micky would have kept rambling on, but in his dizzy inebriated state, he was obviously finding it difficult to get words out. Mike hadn’t stopped blushing.

  
“Thanks, Mike,” Micky grinned after the water had all been drunk. It seemed to sober him, but only by a slim margin. He still had that dreamy look and was swaying this way and that. “You’re a great guy.”

  
Mike shrugged off Micky’s compliment, which made him pout and lightly slap him on the arm. “I mean it man!” Micky shouted – he had always lacked volume control. “You’re considerate! You didn’t have to wait up for me, you could be asleep right now. But you’re awake, givin’ me water.”

  
“I didn’t stay awake for you,” Mike frowned, which made Micky smile at him playfully and take hold of his forearm. “And besides, you would have woken me up with all your clumsiness and stumbling.”

  
“C’moooon Mike,” Micky whined, pouting again, keeping his grip on Mike’s arm. His words had been slurring, and it was only getting worse, in spite of the water. Mike wondered if he was doing it on purpose, as a way to seem cuter. “Why can’t you just take the compliment?”

  
Mike didn’t know what to say. Micky, in the absence of a response, placed Mike’s hands on his waist, as he lay his arms over Mike’s shoulders. Their noses were almost touching.

  
Mike didn’t want to assume something was going on when it wasn’t. Micky was always touchy when drunk, and when he was sober, too. It wasn’t like he and Micky had never been this close before. But they were alone now, and it was weird feeling Micky’s waist beneath his fingertips like this. It was weird to be able to smell the booze on him from being so close.

  
Mike stepped back. “I think you need to slow down, shotgun,” he said softly.

  
“Mike,” Micky whined quietly, reaching out to him again. Mike hoped Micky wasn’t perceptive enough to realise how flustered he really was. Without another word, he left Micky, and walked up the stairs to his room, picking at the calluses on his fingers.

  
Micky was too inebriated to consider fully what had happened, but he still recognised his feeling of defeat. Micky slumped on the sofa, dejected.

  
-  
Mike’s mind was whirling. Had he just made things weird between them? What if Micky hadn’t meant anything? What if Mike was seeing things when there weren’t any? Was it just wishful thinking affecting his better judgement? But he couldn’t just let it happen; he would have exploded from nervousness if the situation had gone any further.  
He jumped as he felt the sting from picking at his skin a little too hard. He instinctively sucked on one his fingers to dull the pain, simultaneously mulling over his predicament in his head. After a while of quiet contemplation as he ran his thumb over the rough calluses, just as Micky had done approximately twenty minutes before, he decided his best option was to just go back out and talk to Micky. Hopefully, Mike had just imagined there was something between them, or even better, Micky would completely forget about it by the morning.

  
“Micky, man, I’m sorry,” Mike started, making his way down the stairs. “I probably made everything weird I know you didn’t mean it … like … that-“

  
But Mike’s voice quietened and trailed off as he looked over to Micky and realised he was passed out on the sofa. Mike blew out a breath. _So much for closure._

  
Mike sighed, again. He had probably just ruined everything between them. But he couldn’t just leave him out in the living room, he didn’t want him to be woken up by Davy and Peter. Micky would likely be wanting to sleep it off until late the next day (which the couch wasn’t a great place for that). Carefully, very carefully, Mike lifted Micky off the couch and struggled up the stairs. Fortunately, Micky was out like a light. Unfortunately for Mike, he was attempting to pull dead weight from the living room to the upstairs bedroom.

  
He gently lay Micky in his bed, having successfully not woken him up on their journey, and looked down at the sleeping body in the bed, feeling a twinge of regret.

  
-

  
Micky woke late the next day to a splitting headache, overwhelming nausea, and a horrible taste in his mouth. He spent a minute or so both feeling sorry for himself and wondering how he had ended up in his own bed. The last thing he remembered was the couch. Eventually, the nausea overtook him, and he had to rush for the bathroom. He hoped that had gotten all of the alcohol out of his system.

  
He made his way to the kitchen with the goal of making himself a coffee to fight his killer hangover. Mike was in the living room, picking at his guitar strings. He didn’t say anything to Micky – didn’t even look at him. Micky thought it was strange, until he started to remember everything he had said and done last night, and how Mike had obviously tried to let him down easy. His skin flared up in embarrassment as he recoiled, his face in his hands.

  
Maybe he could play it off as a joke. That’s what he usually did when things went wrong. Maybe Mike was _just_ self-conscious enough to buy it. But something about the way Mike had said _“I think you need to slow down, shotgun”_ , something about the way he had left Micky in the kitchen without looking back, suggested he wouldn’t be convinced by Micky laughing it off. Besides, how would he possibly bring it up without making things so much more awkward? He regretted not drinking enough to forget the events of the night. Now he was stuck with both a hangover and the sting of rejection.

  
Despite the embarrassment making it difficult to go on, he continued to make his coffee, focusing all of his attention on it, and drifted over to the couch (for lack of a better place to sit). Mike pretended he wasn’t there, continuing to pluck at his guitar. Always thoughtful however, he did seem to play quieter to accommodate for Micky’s headache. It took a while for Micky to be able to process what he was singing.

  
_Cause now I feel like such a fool_

  
_For making you crawl back to me_

  
_But you did it with such love_

  
He always thought Mike had the best voice out of all of them, though he rarely used it. Mike always said that Micky had the most pleasant voice he had ever heard, and always suggested his songs for gigs. Obviously, he couldn’t win him over with just a voice though, he thought bitterly. Micky was consumed by guilt. He couldn’t expect his roommate to feel the same way. But it still hurt, and even though he knew it was irrational, the anger was still there. Mostly, he was enraged at how hard it was to hate Mike.

  
_And if in the end we should go_

  
_Our separate ways I know_

  
_The lesson I’ve learned here is worth it all_

  
Micky didn’t finish his coffee. He set it on the table and went back up to his and Mike’s room. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in hands, trying to get over the splitting in his head. Mike had set his guitar down and followed Micky into their bedroom.

“That was a groovy song, Mike,” Micky said, eyes glued to the floor as Mike entered the room tentatively.

  
“Ain’t nothin’ groovy about it, man,” Mike gave a weak chuckle. “You ‘right, Mick?”

  
“Just hungover, babe,” Micky sighed, a blush creeping over him once again. His fingers clenched into the mattress. Mike closed the door behind him, looking uncomfortable as he picked at the skin on his fingers.

  
“So, it’s not about …” Mike trailed off. Micky cringed inwardly again. He had expected Mike to never want to bring it up out of disgust. He had expected Mike to quietly swap rooms with Davy or Peter and start to slowly distance himself from Micky.

  
“I didn’t think you of all people to wanna bring _that_ up,” Micky frowned. He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but before he knew it, the words were spitting out of him and he realised he was more hurt than he had initially thought.

  
“Wh- Man, I –“

  
“Just forget it,” Micky snapped, and winced at his sudden change in volume. Mike’s head snapped in his direction, as he had obviously had enough of pretending not to take offence to Micky’s attitude.

  
“Don’t get mad at me when _you’re_ the one who came onto _me_ ,” Mike fumed. Micky stood up to face him. “I’m just making sure we’re okay! I’m not the bad guy, here.”

  
“And I am?” Micky asked defensively, gesturing wildly.

  
“No, that’s not what-“

  
“You rejected me,” Micky snapped again. His headache was getting worse, but he was doing his best to ignore it. “End of story. Just leave it at that and forget about it.”

  
“I never said I didn’t want it!” Mike burst out, then immediately regretted it. By the shocked look on his face, this was obviously a revelation for him as well. His face softened, as he caught Micky’s eye for the first time that day. Micky had been looking everywhere except his eyes – his chin, his nose, his shoulders, but never his eyes. His voice had lowered to almost a whisper. “But you were drunk, Mick. Wh-what was I supposed to think?”

  
Micky stood still, caught off guard by what Mike had said. The anger had gone out of him all at once; the fight had left him. He, too, was merely whispering now. “I meant what I said last night. You’re considerate. And I meant what I … did.”

  
The tension had completely gone out of Mike at that. He gave Micky a faint smile. A barely noticeable quirk at the edge of his lips that took Micky’s breath away. He timidly placed his hands on Micky’s waist and stepped closer. Micky hesitated for a second. Then he let his arms lay over Mike’s shoulders. They were nose to nose.

  
“Is this okay?” Mike asked. Micky sucked in a breath and nodded. Mike pressed their lips together, always so careful, and Micky melted into the kiss instantly. Mike sighed and ran his hand through Micky’s hair. “I’m so glad you stopped straightening your hair,” he said, when they finally pulled apart.

  
Micky had been uncharacteristically lost for words, and instead of attempting to fill the silence, he leaned in and kissed Mike again. Mike’s hands touched his face, and he could feel the rough skin from his callused fingertips on his cheek.

  
They finally split apart when they heard voices downstairs.

  
“Davy and Peter,” Mike mumbled, stepping backwards by a quarter of an inch. He hesitated, unsure of himself, with his hands hovering over Micky’s waist.

  
“The door’s closed, babe,” Micky chuckled, leaning into him again. “It’s fine.”

  
But Mike had lost his confidence and appeared to be shaky.

  
“Mick,” Mike mumbled again, gently pushing Micky away from him. “Micky, we have to be careful.”

  
This time, Micky listened, distancing him from Mike with a slightly disappointed look in his eye. He nodded, but he still looked downcast.

  
“C’mon,” Mike gave Micky a warm smile, caressing his arm, which caused Micky to lighten up at the resumed contact. “D’ya want me to make you another coffee? The one you had before is probably cold by now.”

  
Micky beamed and nodded more enthusiastically this time. His headache had calmed to a dull thud now. Mike pulled him out of the bedroom by his hand, quickly dropping it once they were past the doorway and descending the staircase to greet Davy and Peter.


End file.
